Hey. You. The girl with the obnoxious wedding hashtag and disgustingly sappy engagement photoshoot pics. Yeah, I’m talking to you. Your engagement ring can’t hide you now.
GET THE FUCK OFF MY NEWSFEED.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I am so, so happy for you. I’m so glad you found love, or whatever you consider to be love at the age of 21. When I was 21, I’m pretty sure I fell in love with any guy who bought me fireball shots. Things change.
*I now only fall in love with guys who buy me tequila shots. Or mixed tequila beverages. I’m not picky.
I would say I’ve actually dated, like, 10 guys in my life. Is this a high number? A low number? I have no idea, but I think it’s a pretty decent sample size. These guys have ranged from ‘number one douchelord’ to ‘super nice person with everything going for him who just wasn’t right for me.’
Over this series of escapades*, I’ve done a lot of growing. Whether things end amicably, or with one of my roommates receiving a text from the kind people of the Trader Joe’s wine aisle (*grocery store intercom voice* “PAGING L & M, PLEASE COME COLLECT YOUR HEARTBREAK ROADKILL”), this shit changes you.**
*Beginning in 8th grade with my first real boyfriend, Tom. Who my mom still dreams that I will marry. WHERE IS MY RING, THOMAS?!
**This is coming from a girl whose most recent date lasted an hour and forty-five minutes, and ended like the scene from ‘Castaway’ where Tom Hanks escapes the crashed and burning plane, gasping for air and life only to later wind up fighting passionately with a volleyball. These are the fantasies I have while striding briskly down Wilson Boulevard towards my apartment.
If you’ve only ever dated one person, and then you decide you are going to marry them, I applaud you. You are probably much more mature than I am, not to mention exponentially less fearful of commitment. (My apologies to all of the men I go on dates with who quickly become unwitting players of the super-fun game ‘Who Can Care Less First’; unfortunately, there are no winners in this game of competitive chill-ness).
I must say, though, that I do not envy you. I wouldn’t trade that time I had to escape a date by sketchily taking all my belongings “to the bathroom” for anything. The Thot Thursdays where I competed with my friends to see who could get the most guys’ phone numbers. The dates that turned into friends; the friends that turned into dates; the dates whose friends turned into my friends’ dates. Did I lose you there? GET IT TOGETHER.
The next time I see a hashtag on Instagram about some guy “completing” you, I’m gonna chuck my phone into the Potomac River. You don’t need someone to complete you. You need to find completeness within yourself first. CUZ YOU A STRONG INDEPENDENT WOMAN WHO DON’T NEEEED NO MAN. And because it’s fun. And then you have fun stories to tell your grandkids. Nicegirls don’t have fun stories.
“And so, my darlings, that’s the tale of the time I met your grandpa, by blacking out and sleeping with his roommate after a Caps game.”
They’re gonna love me.
***Sorry about the serious content, I’m just that level of drunk where I get all philosophical and whatnot. I’ll be back Wednesday with your regularly scheduled programming, because I’m in Canada for work and I already have two Ottawan dates lined up! Look at me now, Tom.